You Shouldn't Have Heard That...
America leaned up against the wall of the brick building in a sitting position. Rain trickled down the wayward strands of his hair and along the sides of his face. It drenched his brown bomber uniform, leaving him shivering and wet.
He looked up at the depressing grey sky through his glasses. The rain collected on the lens and dripped down the rim. Did he really mean that?... He wondered with sadness. As he repeated the hurtful words in his head, a wayward tear streamed down the left side of his face, blending in with the water on his cheeks. His bright blue eyes narrowed, and he quickly wiped the tear away angrily with a free hand. The usual happy expression he wore had dissapeared, shattered by such words.
Trembling; he pulled his hand away to look at it. His whole body ached and longed for warmth, but he refused to go back inside. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He won't. The cold muscles under his skin cried for the warm air of the house, yet his mind was too clouded to respond to his body's desires.
If only rain could wash away problems like it is said to.
A second tear made its way out of his eye; this time, he didn't bother to wipe it away.
He didn't like feeling this way. This hurt; he wasn't used to it.
Once again, his gaze returned to the sky.
*** /Ten minutes earlier/
Today is his birthday. Usually, he keeps it to himself, not wanting to make a big fuss. He sat in his living room, nonchalantly sipping from the pure white tea cup in his hand. The steam rose from the cup, dancing across his face. He took in the scent, and returned to drinking with a large exhale. As much as he wished he could go outside his mansion, the rain kept him away.
It rained frequently in his country, so he was used to it. It streamed down the double-paned windows, and England watched an unusually large droplet cascade down the glass.
He took another sip, and turned away from the window, back to admiring the pictures on his wall. Many were depictions of famous battles, such as Waterloo. That one he didn't care for, but it did fill up space on his wall none-the-less. His green orbs gravitated to a painting in the far left corner of his picture wall.
Two armies collided in the center, a mass of blue and red. Smoke trailed out of the barrels of fired muskets. One man had a steel, finely-crafted sword raised to the sky; riding on a muscular white horse. Soldiers ran alondside him, coming at the red army with speared-muskets. Countless soldiers from both sides lay defeated on the coarse grass. England stared at the painting with secret disgust. He questioned why it was up there, but remembered that it was important to history.
This was a scene of the Battle of Saratoga. One of the most pitiful battles ever in British history, and that was something to say. On the right side of the golden-framed painting was a similar one, this time depicting the surrender of the British army. General Burgoyne shaking the hand of the American General Gates, in his simple blue military uniform. England grumbled before taking another sip of his now cold tea. He shook his head, and placed the cup down on the cedar coffee table.
The Battle of Saratoga was an utter defeat for the British; the Americans outnumbered them in the end. They were careless to wage war in foreign territory in the middle of an open field. If he had been General Burgoyne, he knew he would have handled it differently. If only America hand't been such a bloody wanker and stayed with him! He then wouldn't have to face the humiliation of the countless battles lost when it clearly should have been won by his superior army.
He let out a scoff, then raised from his position on the couch to observe the painting from closer up.
"Why are you so mad, Arthur?" A small, sky blue unicorn appeared next to the distressed England, and knudged his hand. Immediatly, he pulled away the hand, startling the creature. The unicorn's black eyes sadened, and it took a step back. Arthur realized how he reacted, and bent down to comfort his friend.
A flying mint bunny drifted down from the arched ceiling and perched on Arthur's shoulder. It rubbed against his cheek, and twitched its whiskers to try and tickle England.
"I'm not mad." He replied through a clenched jaw. He was bad at hiding his emotions. The magical creatures did not understand why he was upset, and continued to try to comfort him.
"Isn't it your birthday?" The flying mint bunny changed the subject. "Why don't you invite someone over?" It suggested in the high squeaky voice that it owns.
"I don't like having anyone over for my birthday, there's just no point in making a big fuss over it." He pet the top of the unicorn's head, avoiding the golden horn.
"Why don't you invite America over!" The sky-blue unicorn beamed, jumping slightly from the excitment. England snapped his eyes shut, and rose sharply from his crouching position, causing the flying mint bunny to tumble off and barely catch itself before landing. England bared his teeth and clenched his fists into tight balls.
"I HATE AMERICA!"
America made his way down the corridors of England's mansion, carrying a small, green ribboned box. The front door had opened on his own. America attempted to knock, but the large, dark brown double doors swung open with a creak on their own. He wondered what could have let him in. He recalled England mentioning previously about a few magical beings with him, but didn't remember if they could interact with physical objects.
The hallways echoed with each step America took in his boots. The white walls were lined with cresent molding along the trims. Everything in the Brit's house was in pristine condition, placed perfectly on stands or end tables.
America took a sharp right and walked briskly down the hall, admiring the decor. Then, he heard England's voice. He got excited, and picked up the pace in that direction. He was careful to not drop his present. The voice grew louder as he approached a white double door at the end of the long hallway. Exhaling the breath he had kept in, he gazed down at the wrapped present in his right hand. I hope he likes it... He smiled, and placed his left hand on the left door knob quietly. Won't he be surprised. The door creaked open as he twisted the bronze knob, and went the rest of the way on its own. America took one step into the room to see England standing next to the wall, clenched fists and barred teeth. His thick eyebrows were furrowed.
"I HATE AMERICA!" He yelled, and America's blue eyes widened. America froze, and the only thing that could be heard was the yell resonating through the air. The carefully wrapped present slipped from America's grasp, and landed on the hard floor with a thud and a shatter. England looked towards the door, now with green eyes open and glaring.
America trembled, and took a step back.
England's green eyes widned, and his anger escaped his mind. The tip of his thick eyebrows curved upward into a sad and caring manner. America took another step back, hands shaking and eyes flooded with pain and dread.
"I-I didn't know that was how you felt..." He let out, before spinning on his heel and dashing out of the hallway. England stretched out an arm.
"America! Wait! I didn't mean to..." He dropped his arm and his shoulders fell. "America..." He looked down on the ground where Alfred was previously standing. A small green-wrapped box lay colapsed on the ground, white tissue paper spilling out. His hand took up the box, and a flat frame slipped out of it, followed by glass shards. Arthur discarded the box beside the mess and gently grabbed the object.
To Arthur,
I did this a LONG time back, but didn't know what to do with it. I think you should have it, there's no reason for me to keep it. Happy Birthday~!
~With Love,
Alfred Jones.
A message was written on the back in blue sharpie. Turning the frame around, he brushed off the remaining glass shards carefully, as not to pierce himself. The shattered glass distorted the image, but he could still make it out. It was not a taken photo, but an amateur's drawing. It showed two stick figures holding hands on a grass field, with a smiling sun in the background. One of the two had a set of thick eyebrows, and green eyes. The one on the right had blue eyes, glasses, and a hair antennae jutting from the top of his head. They were smiling together; standing in front of a flag. Half resembled to American flag, and the other the British flag. On the bottom right corner, was a date. In sloppy writing, it read: January 16, 1784. Two days after the Treaty of Paris was signed. He smiled, and touched the exposed paper due to the crushed glass. Then, determination entered his eyes, and he stood up, looking out into the hallway. He set the picture down on the coffee table, and darted after America.
He continued to wait out in the rain. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to leave, yet he didn't want to be here. Alfred buried his head in his soaked hands, and tried to contain the tears continuously streaming from his eyes. His hair antennae drooped down, and fell into place with the rest of his drenched locks.
There was a disturbance in the patter of the rain upon the concrete of the walkway. Repeating clomps of feet set down on the water covered path, ever growing louder. America didn't bother to look up; he knew who it was.
The walking stopped, and the soft pitter of rain hitting clothing continued.
"Alfred, get up." A tight voice demanded with soft force. Much like how a mother would adress her child. The shivering figure remained on the ground. England stretched out a hand to America, shaking it to try to get him to take it. "Come on," he pleaded. Alfred slowly looked up at the usually shorter country, and England looked back at him with care in his olive eyes. England watched the tears coming from America's eyes converge with the fast rain.
America looked at the hand, tempted to grasp it, but instead shook his head, and looked down at his lap. A sigh came from Arthur, and his voice turned into that of a compassionate state.
"You can't be the hero if you're crying." Alfred's aqua eyes widened, and he spun his head around to look at England. "Come on, you're getting a cold." He shook his hand once more, and this time Alfred quickly grasped the hand. Arthur pulled him up, and removed his coat to drap it around Alfred's shoulders.
The two walked off towards the entrance to England's mansion to escape the rain. America let out a loud sneeze, and wiped the tears and snot away. Even with how disgusted England would usually be, he didn't comment. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulder guided him to the doors.
"How 'bout we get you warm, and something to eat?" England asked, looking up at Alfred. A smirk played on America's lips.
"Yes, and as long as I can have burgers." He laughed, and looked down at his feet. England nodded.
"Sure, whatever you want."
"Happy Birthday." Alfred wished, and glanced at England.
"Yeah, happy birthday..." For once, he was glad to have the upbeat and somewhat annoying America back.